She's Not Talking About Playing With Clay
by Riathe Mai
Summary: Pre-Series Weechester. John hated malls and he usually avoided them like the plague. But, on a cool September Saturday morning, John braves the mall with his two small boys. While enjoying the moment with his boys, he is approached by a woman who has an unusual and unexpected offer for one of his boys. AwesomeDaddyJohn / CuteBabySammy / SweetBigBrotherDean / FluffyFamilyShmoop


**A/N:** How to explain where this story came from…While at an amusement park, my seventeen-year-old son was approached by a talent scout. We were both pretty shocked. Naturally, I think I have a handsome son, but model material? Nope, never would have crossed our minds. She took down our information and a week later we went in for an interview. Who knows what will come of it, right?

Anyway, a few days later, the E/O Drabble Challenge WOW was "Darling". I wrote my silly little fic and posted it, but then I thought: _How would John Winchester have reacted to a talent scout taking interest in one of his boys?_ I wrote up another 100 words to explore the notion and I sent it off to Kailene (to whom, all my stories go before they go anywhere else). She laughed and told me to post it (she's awesome like that). But, I thought the drabble was such a tease and the idea needed something more. Of course, she agreed.

**A/N:** Thanks to Kailene for reading this over so quickly. All mistakes are my fault, as I always have to tweak things.

**Spoliers/Warnings:** Pre-seriesWeechester . Dean is 6, Sammy is 2. AwesomeDaddyJohn/CuteBabySammy/SweetDean. Pure fluffy schmoop!

-SPN-

**She's Not Talking About Playing With Clay**

John hated malls, and usually he avoided them like the plague. There were too many people and too many blind spots and not enough ways to get out fast enough if things went south. He certainly didn't like bringing his boys into such places. They were so young and small. If something were to go wrong, fast; would he be able to get them both out unscathed?

No, malls were death traps with bad music; and only the most extenuating circumstances would have brought him there, boys in tow, on a Saturday afternoon. They were in Massachusetts, it was early fall, and Dean needed a warmer jacket for school.

John still chafed at the memory. The teacher had been sympathetic and discreet when she'd pulled John aside the day before. She'd sounded genuinely concerned when she'd gently and evenly informed John that, per school policy, Dean would not be allowed to go outside for recess with the other children if he didn't have weather-appropriate clothing. Still, it galled for a stranger to tell John Winchester how to take care of his sons.

All the more so because she was right.

Chagrined, and annoyed because he was chagrined, he'd bundled up his boys right after breakfast and had headed to the nearest Thrift store in search of 'weather-appropriate' clothing.

The trip had been a bust, though. Apparently people didn't discard their children's fall jackets or sweatshirts in the fall. They discarded them in the spring when they cleaned out their closets to make room for their summer wardrobe.

What the hell was a summer wardrobe, anyway; and why did one have to make room for one? His boys' entire wardrobe-spring, summer, fall, and winter— could fit in one properly packed rucksack, for crying out loud. The excess of some people made his teeth ache.

"There's a Filene's Basement at the Mall," the clerk at the thrift store had offered with a warm smile. "They have great deals on children's outerwear. It's so stupid what some people pay for children's clothing. They grow so fast, they're only in it for a few months."

John had thanked her, offering her a dimpled smile and a wink that had left a glaze over her eyes. That smile had faded as soon as he'd stepped back out onto the sidewalk.

He'd rather eat broken glass than step foot in a Mall.

There was no help for it, though. Dean needed a new coat; and for his boys, John Winchester would chomp down on those shards and ask for seconds.

So, now John stood in the foyer, well out of the path of the steady stream of entering and exiting shoppers, and frowned. More were entering than exiting.

He hitched Sammy a little higher in his arms. The toddler's head rested heavily in the crook of John's neck, his soft, floppy waves brushing the side of jaw. His thumb was in his mouth and he was sucking it with soft smacking noises. A single high note sounded on his exhale, sweet and clear as he hummed to himself; caught in that tentative place between sleepy and awake that every parent wished they had the power to control.

John was no different. Still, he deluded himself as all parents did, that he could prolong that sweet stillness by gently bouncing the small body in his arms and rubbing his back.

"Daddy?"

Immediately, Sammy's chubby legs began to swing back and forth, his heels colliding with John's kidney and gut with increasing force.

"Daddy?"

John sighed at the lost moment, though not at the cause. He looked down at Dean's curious—and mildly impatient—face with it smattering of freckles across the nose, and couldn't help but smile.

Dean stood right at John's left side as he'd been taught. It was the same side on which John carried Sammy, so as to keep his right hand free should he need it. He gazed up at John with expectant green eyes, clearly waiting for instructions or, at the very least, some kind of movement on John's part.

In his arms, Sammy leaned over to look down on his brother. He squirmed and stretched out his closest foot to swing it over Dean's head. Dean laughed up at him, raising his hand so Sammy's sneakers-clad toe connected with his palm.

Laughter bubbled up out of Sammy's small body, loud and unfettered even by the thumb still firmly in his mouth. Not for the first time, John wished he could bottle that sound. It would have been a more effective balm to his broken heart on those dark nights than anything he normal poured down his throat.

"Wha'd'ya say, there, Sport?" John said smiling down at Dean's happy face. "Ready to brave these shark-infested waters?"

Dean snapped off a sharp salute. "Yes, Sir! I got your back!"

"I know you do, Sport," he answered with a slight catch in his throat. "Loop in, soldier!"

Dean's fingers immediately threaded through the belt loop of John's jeans and closed into a tight fist. "Looped in, Sir!"

John set his shoulders, giving Sammy another little bounce in his arms that set his chubby little legs swinging again. He took a deep breath, wondering if shark-infested waters would be less harrowing than that press of hair-sprayed teenagers congregating in the center of the aisle.

He hoped no one lit a match within ten feet of that swarm or the whole lot of them might go up like a Roman candle.

"Forward, march," he said. With Winchester determination, they moved.

-SPN-

They'd found the store at the opposite end of the mall; and within fifteen minutes of entering the store, they were leaving it again with Dean's new jacket. It had taken them longer to navigate the length of the mall, threading their way through clumps of teens and moms with strollers, none of whom seemed to care about who they were obstructing or bumping into as they went about their business.

Once again, John stood at the end of the mall, looking at the gauntlet he was going to need to cross with trepidation. Sammy had been content to ride John's hip the whole time, but he was fast approaching his limit of confinement.

He squirmed, bending his tiny body this way and that; reaching out for Dean with both hands. For such a small child, he was incredibly strong when he wanted to be.

"Dee!" he cried, his little fists opening and closing as though he thought he could pull his brother closer by that invisible thread that only he could see.

"I know, Sammy," John tried to sooth. He couldn't really blame the child. He'd been so quiet and patient while Dean tried on jacket after jacket. Sure, he'd hoped he would have held out a little longer, but he hadn't really expected him to be content this long.

"What'sa matter, Sammy?" Dean asked, giving Sammy his finger to clutch. It just gave the two-year-old more leverage, and if John hadn't been as diligent as he was, Sammy might have pulled himself right out if his arms.

"He wants to walk," Dean said, distress clear in his voice.

_He wants to run, more like it_, John thought. Aloud, he said, "I know, Sport. But there are too many people. He'll get hurt."

"I'll hold his hand." It was the closest thing to an argument as he ever got from Dean; and it wasn't lost on John that the only time Dean showed resistance was in defense of his little brother.

That wasn't necessarily a bad thing.

John made a quick scan of the area and spotted a sitting area between two kiosks. "Tell you what. How about we take a little breather, huh?"

He took Dean by the hand and led him across the current of traffic orbiting the center median like cars on a track, to an empty bench in the sitting area. He sat down on the bench with a sigh, and set Sammy down between his knees.

"How's that, Tiger? Need to stretch your legs a bit?"

Apparently, it was exactly what the toddler needed. As soon as his feet touched the floor, all signs of distress disappeared from his face. He looked up at John and smiled so brightly, he nearly fell over backwards.

"You little con man, you," John said affectionately.

Dean settled on the bench beside him and Sammy reached out for his hand, a look of determination on his chubby, little face. Using John's legs for support, Sammy toddled his way over to Dean, squealing in delight when he reached him and Dean closed his arms around him.

It quickly became a game; Sammy going back and forth between the two of them. Each time he reached his destination and they wrapped their arms around him, he let out a high-pitched squeal of unbridled happiness. John couldn't help but laugh himself.

"Oh my, what a beautiful child."

The woman seemed to come out of nowhere, materializing at the end of the bench just out of John's peripheral vision. He was so distracted by his son's joy; he'd never even seen her approach.

Tall and slim in a black men's-cut, two-piece suit with bright blue blouse and matching shoes, she looked to be about fifty. She had warm brown eyes and dark hair pulled back in an executive twist. She wore quite a bit of makeup, but it was tastefully done. She looked like a business woman, right down to the tan briefcase in her right hand.

As though sensing his alarm, she smiled and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to intrude. I just couldn't help but notice him. Why, that laugh alone would make the angels stop and take notice."

Clearly she thought he'd find that comment to be a good thing, but unease settled in his gut. The notion of anything _otherly_ taking a shine to one of his boys made him want to start swinging.

Her next comment derailed his fight or flight train right at the gate.

"Have you ever considered getting him into modeling?"

"Excuse me?" he asked stupidly. He must not have heard her correctly.

"Modeling," she repeated. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card, handing it out to him.

Before John could decide if he was going to take it from her, Dean said, "He's a baby. He's too little to play with clay."

He had Sammy tucked into the cage of his small arms and legs, and Sammy seemed content to stay right there, his little arms wrapped around Deans waist and his tousled head against Dean's chest. From that safe haven he smiled at John and at Dean and at anyone else who happened to catch his eye.

John felt his stomach drop with dread. That sweet innocence was so precious and so fleeting, too. Dean had been the same way when he'd been that young, open and trusting and ready to smile at everyone he saw. Then Evil had come into his world and that innocence had been shattered forever.

The only one he smiled at like that, now, was Sammy; and John sometimes suspected it was only because Sammy could coax a smile out of a stone statue.

"I don't think she's talking about playing with clay," John said gravely. He accepted her card as though it were something likely to transform into a snake and bite him. He gave it a quick glance.

Then had to look again.

Marjorie McMasterson.

Talent Acquisitions Specialist

TalentEd, Inc.

"Talent Scout?" Was she kidding? "He's only two," John replied, handing back the card.

He assumed that little factoid was enough to end the conversation, but apparently it wasn't. Marjorie McMasterson ignored the card in his outstretched hand and stepped around the end of the bench.

"Oh, I have clients as young as six months," she said cheerfully. "It's amazing the demand for infants and toddlers, especially this time of the year. Why the Christmas Wish Book alone-"

"I'm not interested," John said pushing himself to his feet. He turned towards his sons, keeping her in his peripheral vision. He didn't think she was a threat, but that didn't mean he was going to turn his back on her.

Or let her near his boys.

Undeterred, she continued. "I understand your reticence. It can be such a competitive market. But, with the right opportunities and the right representation, a child as sweet and happy as he is, could make a lot of money."

Dean was scowling at the woman. John wondered if she were to step any closer, would Dean go so far as to growl at her. He wasn't sure he'd have reprimanded him for his manners if he did, or take him out for ice cream as a reward.

John reached down to pick Sammy up. The imp smiled at him around the thumb in his mouth, shook his head, then threw both arms around Dean's waist, again.

"Game over, Squirt," he said scooping him up in his arms. Sammy let out another squeal of delight and threw his little arms around John's neck. He dropped his head onto John's shoulder and stuffed his thumb back into his mouth.

"Oh, he is such a little darling!" she exclaimed.

By the look on the woman's face, he knew Sammy was giving her another megawatt smile. John's stomach twisted again.

"Why, I've been in this business a long, long time, so believe me when I say; I could almost guarantee national exposure for this little sweetheart."

_National exposure?_ Like John wanted that kind—hell _any_ kind of attention foisted on his boys.

"I said," he said menacingly. "I'm not interested." He wasn't sure what expression washed over his face, but he could imagine it wasn't pleasant if the way she stopped short and took a small step back was any indication. He really didn't care as long as it earned him the desired result.

He turned and beckoned to Dean who immediately grabbed his new jacket and hopped off the bench. He placed himself right at John's side and latched on to his belt loop. Suddenly, that didn't feel secure enough to John. He reached down and closed his hand around Dean's.

And when that, too, seemed insufficient to ensure Dean stayed safely at his side through the tide of people, he leaned down and scooped Dean up in his arms.

"Daddy?" Dean asked as he settled into the crook of John's elbow. Hadn't John told him just yesterday how he was getting too big for John to carry?

"It's okay, Sport," he promised, though he suddenly didn't feel okay at all.

God, he really hated Malls.


End file.
